But she was ready for him now. She was prepared. She’d seen a recent photograph that young Frank had shown her, so she knew that there were some strong lines creasing his cheeks nowadays, and crow’s-feet from a quarter century of smiling pleasantly at his students. And she knew that he was still just as tall and athletic as before, because regular exercise had toned his body and preserved his figure. And she knew that there was a little graying at the temples. But the photograph, being black and white, could not convey the healthy youthfulness of his complexion, and the rich color of his hair; and so although she was well prepared and totally in control of herself, and greeted him as an old family friend, she was all too aware of the little gasp, the intake of breath that caught her unawares, despite all her preparation, as she crossed the room toward him.

They chatted easily. Roland de Cygne came and joined them.

“I am sorry that your wife could not come with you,” Marie said.

“So am I. But her sister lost her husband recently, so she wanted to spend a little time with her. And she doesn’t really like to travel.”

“Hates the sea,” said his son. “She won’t come sailing with us.”

“And where are you staying?” asked Roland.

“I thought I’d stay a month, revisit old haunts, that kind of thing. So instead of a hotel, I took an apartment in the Eighth, overlooking the Parc Monceau. There’s a housekeeper who comes in each day. It suits me very well.”

“I should like to give a dinner for you,” said Roland de Cygne.

“That would be very kind.”

“Have you retired from teaching, to be away for so long?” Marie asked.

“I’m not ready to retire for a long time yet,” Hadley answered. “But I took a sabbatical. With my son in France, it seemed a good time. I’m doing a little monograph on the Impressionists in London.” He smiled. “Did you know that when he did all those paintings of the Thames, and the London fog, Monet was staying at the Savoy Hotel? Painted looking out of the window. He stayed at the Savoy for weeks. So much for the struggling artist!”

“I hope a stay at the Savoy formed part of your own research,” said de Cygne.

“As a matter of fact,” Hadley answered cheerfully, “it did.”

He still spoke excellent French. As she looked at young Frank, watching the little group with Claire, she thought how nice it must be for him to have a father he could feel so proud of.